


Sleeping On It

by acme146



Series: Sleeping On It 'Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Fluff, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Canon Era, Dream Sharing, M/M, Matchmaking across Dimensions, Pining, universes collide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acme146/pseuds/acme146
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John aren't together. Neither are Holmes and Watson. But while the latter cannot be together, the former cannot see how they can be together. Can one night of cross-dimensional advice change anything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A man sat in front of the fire at 221b Baker Street, flipping through the latest medical journal. Another was sitting across from him, smoking a pipe with his arms crossed over his chest. Anyone who didn’t know the two men would marvel at how long they had been silent in those positions. Surely even two close friends would speak more often than once in three hours. They must be arguing, a casual observer would conclude.

           

However, as a somewhat cranky Inspector and a lofty politician would attest, Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes were not ordinary men. Their silence stemmed not from ire but from exhaustion, and both were soothed by the other’s not requiring conversation. It had been a long day, culminating in a chase across central London that finished at Paddington Station. The forger had been caught, his minor wounds tended by the doctor before being taken to jail, and their grateful clients had insisted on taking them to dinner at the Savoy. Now back in the sanctuary of Baker Street, the two friends were resting their weary legs; they weren’t young twenty-and-odds anymore. Soft snow was falling outside.

           

Dr. Watson broke the silence. “I say, Holmes, is it really twelve o’clock?”

           

“If that is what the clock says, my dear fellow, then I believe that is the time.”

           

Watson just shook his head and put down the journal. “Then I believe I will retire to bed. I’ve got to get up early if I want to- to go before work.” He winced unconsciously as he pictured the snow covered grave he would visit upon the morrow. Though his Mary had been dead nearly three years now, he still visited her last resting place as often as he could. It had been nearly two months since he had the chance to do so, he thought guiltily, and he was determined to make it before the flood of midwinter patients occupied him for the remainder of the day.

         

Holmes didn’t reply, merely stared into the fire.

           

“Goodnight Holmes,” Watson said gently. He was used to the detective’s long silences.

           

“Our clients were certainly gracious tonight.”

           

Watson turned in surprise. Holmes rarely commented on their clients once a case had been completed. “They were both quite charming,” was all he said. “I have seen very few couples so united.”

           

Holmes took his pipe out of his mouth and examined it. “Why do you say that?”

           

Watson was confused. “I know you are not fond of the softer passions, my friend, but surely even you saw how much they love each other? They hardly spoke to us, even though we were there at their invitation; indeed, they hardly spoke at all. They only needed to share a glance to carry on entire conversations. The few words they spoke were in perfect agreement on a variety of subjects and always contained praise of the other, and their sincerity was blatantly obvious.”

           

“I must say, that’s rather vague,”  Holmes replied. “Why, it might even be a description of us!”

           

Watson blushed. “Well, of course, that could be said of any two who are intimate: lovers, friends or even relations.” He put his hand on the back of his chair, trying to decide how to explain love to his friend. “Think of their case, for instance. The woman was sent letters that laid out her husband’s infidelity in plain, bald terms; at his denial, however, she believed him implicitly, and came straight to us to prove his innocence. That trust, even after she was the victim of infidelity in a previous engagement, is remarkable.  And do you remember the horror in his face when you asked  him if the allegation was true? He loves her so completely that the very idea of betraying her is unthinkable. That shared trust makes it possible for them to build a life together, and share the passionate love that many feel but few can truly express.”

           

Holmes leaned back. “Well, that makes it more plain. Your definition of true love- for I assume that you see the Rochesters as examples of that?” At Watson’s slightly embarrassed nod, he continued. “Well, then, true love is shared between two people who share a deep and passionate connection built upon trust, mutual interests and romantic inclination.”

           

“Yes,” Watson agreed.

           

Holmes stayed silent for a moment, and Watson was startled to see a look of great tension pass across his friend’s face, as though he were facing Moriarty once more. Then it was gone, replaced by a resolution that could not be altered.

           

“Then I stand by what I said before,” Holmes said.  “That could be a description of us. Or, at least, what I feel for you.”

           

The fire had never sounded so loud.

           

“Holmes,” Watson managed- his voice came out in a croak. “You cannot mean that.” He came around the chair and sat down heavily.

           

Holmes smiled bitterly. “Oh, I know precisely what I am saying. I understand your objections; do not fear, I would never do anything to harm your reputation. They are my feelings, not yours. I will keep this shameful secret, but…I could not bear to let it go on any longer. Forgive me, Watson.”

           

“For what?” Watson asked, still stunned.

           

“I know I told you after Reichenbach that there would be no more secrets between us. I meant to tell you this, I swear, but I was ashamed and I was not sure that what I felt was strong enough to merit telling you. Your words about our clients’ love assured me that such was not the case.”

           

“How do you mean, ashamed?” Watson asked.

           

Holmes looked genuinely uncomfortable for the first time. “Well, you know that this type of love is frowned upon, to say the least. It is a criminal act-”

           

“But you don’t care about that,” Watson interrupted. He was beginning to recover from the shock, and noticed the tell-tale twitch about his friend’s lips that betrayed a lie. “You have never so much as attempted to conceal your more illicit activities from me, and have in fact dragged me into a couple such acts, as I recall.”

           

“Not this!” Holmes burst out. “Never this- there is too much shame for you!”

           

And Watson understood. “Shame for me? I would be in no danger, not even if you confessed your love for me in front of the entirety of Scotland Yard; it would be you in gaol. No, the shame you imagine comes from- from what I would think of you for loving me? You believe yourself unworthy?”

           

Holmes stared determinedly into the fire.

           

“And you said it anyway,” Watson marvelled. “And people believe that I am the brave one.”

           

Now that the shock had fully faded, a gentle happiness had begun to let itself be known. A happiness that he had never hoped to feel, because knowing that happiness would mean confessing his own feelings, would have meant risking Holmes’ rejection and fury, for how dare he love the Great Detective, a lowly soldier with a penchant for dangerous situations and a dislike of rows?

           

“Holmes,” he said, as tenderly as he could, as tenderly as he had once spoken to Mary, “look at me.”

           

Holmes did, and his eyes went wide as he read Watson’s face. For once, Watson did not look away or try to conceal any aspect of what he was feeling. He knew his Holmes, and if he couldn’t read it in Watson he would not believe his feelings were reciprocated, not even if Watson told him so all night in a thousand different ways.

           

Stunned, Holmes reached out tentatively, gently placing his hand on Watson’s face. Watson let him, even leaning his face into that poison-scarred hand that could still create such beautiful music.

           

“You feel the same,” Holmes whispered, his voice full of gentle wonder. “But why?”

           

“Because I do,” Watson said simply. “I do not know when my affection grew to include love as well as friendship, but from the moment we met I have been yours, Holmes. I did not speak because I thought that I was not worthy, but I felt it all the same.”

           

Holmes gently ran his thumb over Watson’s cheekbone. “Anyone could tell you that it is I who is unequal to the honour,” he murmured. “But if this is how you feel, then perhaps I could earn it.”

           

Watson shook his head and reached up to cover Holmes’ hand with his own. “Were you not listening before?” he asked gently. “True love has nothing to do with checks and balances, but with hands and hearts joined as equals in love.”

           

“Sentimental idiot,” Holmes scoffed. “That sounds like the most indulgent of love poetry.” He did look pleased, however.

           

“Only the best for my Holmes.”

           

“That would explain why it is you that I have fallen in love with,” Holmes mused. “Logically, it’s perfect-”

           

Watson leaned forward and kissed the detective. Holmes didn’t respond at first, but when Watson didn’t pull away he leaned into the kiss. It was a chaste, simple kiss, but it was the strongest connection Watson had ever felt with another human being.

           

Eventually, they had to pull apart. Holmes was blinking rapidly. “What about Mary?” he asked. “I know you cared for her…”

           

“I loved her,” Watson said truthfully. Noticing his companion’s flinch, he went on hastily, “but it was not the same that I feel for you. I have met and liked many women, Holmes, but Mary was the first that I felt I could be happy with in the long term. She was a good woman; she loved me deeply, and I cared for her as well. But-” he leaned forward and looked Holmes straight in the eye. “Had you been a woman, I would never have looked twice at her.”

           

Holmes looked affronted. “If you had been a woman, you mean,” he said testily. “Why must I be female?”

           

Watson laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes- if I were a woman, I would never have gone to the war that gave me the wound to meet you.”

           

Holmes winced, and placed his free hand carefully on Watson’s bad shoulder. “I wish that hadn’t happened,” he whispered.

           

Watson squeezed his hand. “I don’t,” he said sincerely.

           

Holmes smiled. The two men sat there for a moment, revelling in their happiness. Then the light in Holmes’ face dimmed. “We cannot go on this way, you know.”

           

Watson sighed. “I know.” He realized now that part of the reason Holmes had spoken tonight was because Mrs. Hudson was gone visiting relatives and they had just finished a case, so there was no need for anyone from the Yard to call on them. Mrs. Hudson returned on the morrow, however, and the new day would likely bring a new case— at any rate, certainly many calls. Watson shook his head. He could not risk Holmes’ safety like that.

           

“We must behave as if nothing has changed,” he said sadly. “We cannot even risk it in private, truly- one false move and our secret would be out.”

           

Holmes nodded abruptly. “I believe that….some could be persuaded to keep their own counsel, were they to know.” Watson nodded, counting them off in his head. Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade and possibly Stanley Hopkins. “But I do not want to impose on them, and I do not want to put your safety in their hands. Not truly.”

           

“So we are friends, then,” Watson said.

           

“Good friends,” Holmes clarified.

           

“Of course,” Watson said, smiling sadly. “That is still a part of how I feel for you, no matter what else there is. You are my dearest friend as well as my dearest love.”

           

“There you are again with the poetry,” Holmes snapped, although he was flushing with pleasure.

           

Watson chuckled. “Only because it irritates you, my dear.” He left off the usual ‘fellow’ purposely. Holmes noticed.

           

“You had better get to bed, John,” he said gently. “You are tired, and tomorrow will be another long day.”

           

Watson nodded, a bit surprised by the use of his Christian name. He hesitated, and then leaned forward and kissed Holmes on the brow. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he murmured.

           

Mounting the steps to his bedroom had never felt so difficult. It wasn’t fair, he thought savagely. If Holmes were a woman— and his wife by now, if he could have managed it—they wouldn’t have to hide their affection, wouldn’t have to stay distant. Wouldn’t have to sleep alone…

           

As he prepared for bed, he tried to stay focused on the positive. Holmes—Sherlock—loved him, truly loved him. He had the love of the one man he’d ever loved, surely that counted for something. As he got into bed, he thought bitterly that yes, of course it counted for something, but it made no difference to the outside world. To them, the love they would share was considered a deep and shocking sin, the worst of all possible deeds. Watson wanted to rave with rage. As if Sherlock was truly capable of committing an unpardonable sin!

           

Watson closed his eyes, trying to will the tears back. They would love in secret; that would be enough. Maybe one day, they could retire to the country, live together in an isolated place where no one cared what his neighbour did. Maybe then, they could love each other as they wanted to. But he would never be able to tell anyone, feel the quiet pride of walking with the one he loved where everyone could see, as he used to with Mary…

           

It wasn’t fair. But perhaps time would change that.

           

With that, he managed to sleep, little guessing that a similar anger was being felt in the room below.

 

**************************************************************************  
           

John and Sherlock were both sitting in front of the fire, John patiently two-finger typing up the case they’d just wrapped up, Sherlock examining a monkey’s paw he’d been sent in the mail. John really didn’t want to know.

           

John sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Do you want a cuppa?”

           

Sherlock didn’t reply, so John went to the kitchen and put enough water in the kettle for two large mugs of tea. He was delighted to find that the kettle showed no signs of being used for experimentation. It was brand new, thanks to the last experiment. That had not been a good day.

           

They’d just got in from a rather wild night out with their latest clients, Jane and Eddy, who wanted to thank them for saving their identities from a rather determined hacker. John’s jaw was aching slightly from when the git had swung his laptop case, so they’d made their excuses fairly early.

           

Once the kettle had boiled John put a teabag in each mug and filled them with boiling hot water. He carried them to the sitting room and handed one to Sherlock. “Stop playing with that and drink your tea,” he said mildly.

           

Sherlock reached out with his free hand, but John held the mug just out of reach. “Put that down,” he said sternly.

           

Sherlock scowled but leaned over and tossed the monkey’s paw onto the table, right next to John’s laptop. He reached out for the tea again, which John gave to him with a sigh. His long fingers enveloped the cup as he sipped and John couldn’t help thinking what it would feel like to hold his hand… He shook himself and grabbed his laptop again, frowning as he tried to decide on a title for the case.

           

“Why not the Jane Error?” Sherlock asked, still glancing at the monkey’s paw.

           

John glanced up. He knew Sherlock despised the puns he used for case names, but why not play along? “I don’t know if that’s right,” he said thoughtfully. “She didn’t make the mistake, after all. She knew her husband was innocent.”  
           

“Obviously,” Sherlock sniffed. “I was referring to the hacker; he clearly underestimated her infatuation with her husband.”

           

“Infatuation?” John wasn’t willing to let that go. “Come off it; she’s clearly in love with him.”

           

Sherlock waved his hand. “They’re synonyms.”

           

“Not really.”

           

“Oh no?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Well then, illuminate me, Dr. Watson, who can’t remember his girlfriends’ names until they reach the one month mark, which hasn’t happened in quite a while.”

           

John didn’t take the bait. “Infatuation is more like…a crush, I guess. Everyone has it, once in a while, and you don’t even have to know the person. It can become something more but you can stamp it down if it’s obvious it’s never going to happen.”

           

“You _can_ ,” Sherlock said. “Most people don’t.”

           

“No, they don’t,” John admitted. “But love…it’s different. It doesn’t always feel the same, or look the same, but once you’re really in it there’s no good way to get out of it, no matter how ridiculous or impossible your dream could be.”

           

He was all too familiar with that feeling. Staring across the room, across a crime scene, across a taxi at his flatmate-colleague-friend-god-only-knows, desperately trying to wish his feelings away.

           

“So what do you do, if you’re in love and can’t have them?” Sherlock asked softly. “And you really know it; there’s no point in trying or hoping?”

           

John shook himself out of his stupor and looked at him carefully. The Woman hadn’t been mentioned in weeks, since John had lied about Irene being alive (although he hadn’t, in the end, because he found one ticket stub to Karachi and two back in Sherlock’s wastebasket. Sherlock might be the only Consulting Detective in the world, but he wasn’t clever _all_ the time.)  

           

“Well, there’s lots of things you can do,” he said lightly, “too much beer, too much telly, too much crying—”

           

Sherlock groaned. “John, spare me the drivel…”

           

“Too much stalking,” John continued, “too much sex and too much hatred. But as far as a good solution, that won’t hurt them or yourself…” he sighed. “I think the only thing you can do is try to make their life a little better because they’ve touched yours. Being in love can be bloody awful, especially the kind when they don’t love you back, but in the end you felt something for them, and that’s better than nothing at all.”

           

“I think I prefer numbness,” Sherlock grumbled. He pulled his dressing gown more tightly around himself. John was pleased to see that the motion was difficult- Sherlock had finally relented about not eating and had gained a few pounds in the last month. The extra weight stopped him from looking skeletal but didn’t take away from the sharply defined outlines of his collarbone, the wiry strength in his arms or his elegant cheekbones…

           

_No. Stop it. Stop it now._

“Don’t worry,” he said instead. “I’m sure your case isn’t as hopeless as you think.” _How could it be?_ “Just ask them—the worse they’ll do is say no.”

           

Sherlock looked him directly in the eye and John flinched. He’d never seen the man look so hopeless. “I can assure you,” he said firmly, “that there is no way this will happen. _I know_.”

           

John’s mouth dropped open. With great effort, he regained control of his jaw, enough to say, “sorry, Sherlock. I know—” he hesitated. “I know how that feels.” This had become far too awkward. “Look, if you want to indulge in too much beer, there’s loads in the fridge, next to the fingers.”

           

Sherlock smiled wryly. “Thank you, John, but I think I’ll leave that option untested.”

           

John shrugged. He got to his feet, wincing a bit.

           

“It’s not real,” Sherlock said quietly. “You didn’t get shot there.”

           

And like bloody magic, the pain went away. “How do you do that?” John grumbled, making for the stairs.

           

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said quietly. He might have said something else after that, but John had reached the creaky steps and didn’t hear him.

           

He fell into bed with a groan, not even bothering to take his clothes off. There wasn’t much point, he was unlikely to fall asleep. He laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

           

John wasn’t certain when he’d fallen in love with Sherlock (probably when he first deduced him, but he’d never believed in love at first sight so that wasn’t a serious consideration). He did know, however, down to the second when he’d realized it.

           

He’d helped Sherlock into bed after he woke up shouting about Irene Adler, and after making sure the great idiot was actually going to stay in bed, he’d told him “now, I’ll be next door if you need me.[1]” It was something he’d said a thousand times, to a thousand patients (with variations on the ‘next door’ bit, in Afghanistan it had been ‘next bedroll’ or ‘next tent’.) But Sherlock, unlike those patients, hadn’t just said thank you. He’d said “why would I need you?” Not in a snarky way, as he usually refused offers of help. It was bewilderment more than anything.

           

John had mumbled something in response and left as quickly as he could. He’d sank into his chair and put his face in his hands.

           

_I_ _want you to need me._

They were stupid, cliché, trite words but they were _his_ in that moment, that horrible, desperate moment when he realized he was in love with Sherlock, _really_ in love with him, and wasn’t that wonderful? Except it wasn’t, because Sherlock had made it very clear the first night they’d eaten together at Angelo’s that he was married to his bloody work and that he wasn’t interested in John. John hadn’t seen any divorce papers since then, and even though after the pool it was obvious they’d jumped colleagues and gone straight to friends, that was as much as Sherlock needed from John.

           

Shame, really, that John needed more from Sherlock.

           

But who was he to say that, anyways? Sherlock was apparently in love with the beautiful, accomplished, intelligent, sexy, _female_ Irene Adler. And it didn’t matter that she said she was gay (and that might be wrong—after all, John had said that he wasn’t gay, but that didn’t stop him from being _bi)_ because Sherlock loved her. In fact, that was probably why Sherlock said he had no hope.

           

John shifted onto his side. There wasn’t much he could do to help Sherlock—he was hardly the British Government, he didn’t have the resources to contact Irene, try to give them a chance together. But maybe he could come clean to Mycroft, tell him Sherlock needed Irene and offer to help with the legwork. Sure, it would hurt to see them together, but damn it, if she was what Sherlock wanted, then John would get her for him. Maybe he could babysit someday…he’d have to let them know he’d been joking about Hamish. It was a stupid name and no kid should be cursed with it.

           

John closed his eyes. It was a good plan. It was awful and horrible, but it was a good plan.

           

He didn’t know—couldn’t know—that Sherlock was sitting downstairs, trying to deduce who John was in love with and trying to ignore the cramping feeling in his chest as he ignored the possibility that _he_ was the one the doctor was in love with. John had always been so quick to deny their ‘blatant love’, as the Yarders called it, quick to affirm that he was straight. That narrowed it down, he supposed, to female acquaintances. Perhaps he could bribe Big Brother to come up with more names from the CCTVs. It would be easier to think if his damn chest stopped hurting. He hadn’t been wounded there in ages—there was no logical reason for the pain.

 

[1] Quote from A Scandal In Belgravia


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was aware of a sense of wide emptiness before he opened his eyes. Odd. He distinctly remembered getting into bed and trying, for once, to go to sleep. John would stop worrying if he slept and he didn’t want John to worry.

           

Had Mycroft—or, more worrisome, someone competent—kidnapped him? A stupid decision, really, but that was the only logical conclusion. Although it felt oddly open for a holding cell of any kind. Their first mistake. He’d always done his best thinking whilst pacing.

           

He couldn’t see much when he opened his eyes, but that had less to do with the light—it was bright enough—and more to do with the fact that there was nothing to see. A thick, dry, warm _mist_ surrounded him, dark gray in colour, illuminated by a soft light, source unknown. The ground was a solid, swirling mass of the same mist.

           

Sherlock closed his eyes and then opened them again. This was very strange…no, this was impossible. But what else could it be? Hallucination? No…not drugs either. Trick? How could it be?

           

Then it hit him. “Dream,” he scoffed. “Of course.”

           

“Elementary.”

           

Sherlock spun around. There was another man, not far away. He wasn’t obscured by the mist, and Sherlock could see the pale, lean features of an ascetic, the hands of a chemist and a violinist, and the figure of a man who could be strong and fast if the need arose.

           

In short, he was looking at someone very like himself. 

 

The man wore a dress shirt and a plain vest, and his trousers looked…odd, too old-fashioned to be considered vintage. Victorian, he deduced. He was older than him by about fifteen years. The man’s gaze was intense; with a shock, Sherlock realized that he was _observing_ him, and doing it properly too.  

 

“I suppose I ought to introduce myself,” the man said with an ironic bow. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“That’s—well, I suppose it’s not impossible. This is a dream,” Sherlock mused. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

           

“Well met,” said the Victorian Sherlock Holmes. He stared at him for a moment. “Where do you come from? Your accent is English, but your costume is, quite frankly, absurd.”

           

Sherlock looked down, a little disgruntled to find that the dream world hadn’t let _him_ get dressed, and he was still in his dressing gown, long T shirt and pajama trousers. “I come from the year 2011,” he said stiffly, “and this is how we dress when we go to bed. Well, without the dressing gown sometimes.”

           

The other Sherlock looked shocked. “Strange dream, indeed. Although…”

           

“What?” Sherlock said, although he really knew what the other man meant.

           

“It’s not impossible.”

           

“No, but- we can’t control dreams in my time any more than yours,” Sherlock rebutted.

           

“We ourselves may not be controlling it,” Victorian Sherlock said. He looked thoughtful. “Are you my…”

           

“Now that’s impossible.”

           

“Is it really?”  
           

Sherlock glared at his Victorian self. “Well, for one thing, if you’re me, there’s no way you have children.”

           

The Victorian Sherlock looked scandalized. “Dear God, no!”

           

“And there’s no way Mycroft would have them…”

           

 “Making it difficult, if not impossible for the line to continue, making it quite unlikely for you to exist at all,” the other Sherlock finished.

           

“And I’d have heard if there were another detective with my name; believe me, I would,” Sherlock added.

           

“What makes you think I’m—oh, that won’t do, will it?” the other Sherlock responded with a knowing grin. “You are myself, absurd as that sounds. Perhaps you come from another universe, where much is the same, only the year is different.”

           

The two stared at each other for a moment.

           

“Mrs. Hudson?” Victorian Sherlock said eventually.

           

“Our landlady,” Sherlock confirmed. “Lestrade?”

           

“The best of the professionals, although that’s hardly an exuberant compliment,” Victorian Sherlock said dryly.

           

There was another pause. “Moriarty,” Sherlock growled.

           

Victorian Sherlock bared his teeth, but there was pain as well as rage in the set of his shoulders. “Long dead, although not long enough,” he spat.

           

Sherlock knew he couldn’t hide his relief, and so he didn’t bother. “How?”

           

Victorian Sherlock considered him. “I don’t know if I should tell you that.”  
           

“Why not?”

           

“Because the way I solved it hurt my Watson, and I don’t want you to hurt yours.”

           

The regret in the other man’s voice made Sherlock wince. “Then tell me how to stop that happening.”

           

The Victorian Sherlock shook his head. “You live in a different world, a different time; you probably have better options than I did.”

           

“So will Moriarty,” Sherlock pointed out. He was trying not to sound desperate, although he didn’t know why he bothered.

           

“Take him with you.”

           

“ _Moriarty?!”_

“No, your Watson. John.” The Victorian Sherlock’s face softened as he said that. “Take him with you. That is all I’m going to say on the matter.”

           

And it was. Sherlock knew it. “So you’re friends with John Watson?” he asked carefully.

           

Victorian Sherlock stiffened. “Yes, we’ve been friends for many years.”

           

“And you still live together?”

           

“Yes. Well, he was married for some time” (Sherlock scowled) “and then I…was away, but we’ve taken up living together again since his wife died.”

           

Sherlock’s antipathy towards this ‘wife’ lessened somewhat. He studied the man in front of him. “You’re in love with him,” he realized.

           

Victorian Sherlock looked affronted, but there was fear in his eyes. “How dare you! That is—such a suggestion—”

           

“Oh, spare me,” Sherlock snapped. “You can’t trick me; you _are_ me. You’re in love with him.”

           

The other man relaxed marginally. “Then you know my problem,” he said bitterly.

           

“You can’t act upon it because you’d be thrown in prison,” Sherlock mused. “Yes, that is a problem.”

           

Victorian Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You say that as if you could.”

           

“Could—well, yes, hypothetically. It’s not against the law anymore, not really. There’s still people who are stupid and think it’s wrong, but…”

           

Victorian Sherlock cut him off. “Then are you two together?”

           

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “Of course not—John doesn’t love me; he couldn’t possibly.”

           

Victorian Sherlock smiled; a sincere, understanding smile that Sherlock hadn’t realized he was capable of. “Believe me, that is what I thought until tonight,” he murmured. “But my Watson—my John surprised me. I knew he cared for me, but he hid the true nature of his feelings for a long time.”

           

“That can’t be right,” Sherlock insisted. He wanted to believe it, of course, but he couldn’t admit to being so wrong about John. “He couldn’t hide something that big from me.”

           

Victorian Sherlock crossed his arms. “Does he talk about his brother? His father? Anything about his childhood?”

           

Sherlock tensed. “It’s his sister, actually.” _Always something_ … “And…not much.”

           

Victorian Sherlock seemed to be expecting that. “It took many years for him to mention them to me, to speak about the family that had made him.” Fury sparked in the keen eyes. “He hides his pain well. Now tell me, Sherlock, would being in love with you, and thinking you did not return his affection…would that not be painful?”

           

Sherlock twisted the drawstring of his dressing gown.

           

Victorian Sherlock softened. “Listen to me; you are young, as is your friendship. You have a remarkable freedom, one that I shall never know. He loves you, I know it. Tell him you love him, and do not waste the time Watson and I have wasted, thinking the worst of ourselves.”

           

Sherlock looked the other man in the eye.

           

“Please, will you do this for me?” Victorian Sherlock nearly whispered. “I cannot give John the happiness he deserves in my time. I cannot love him fully; do this for your John.”

           

Sherlock wanted to blurt out all the inconveniences of falling in love, of having to remember dates and buying flowers and doing favours, not to mention the danger John would be in once it was confirmed that they were together…but he knew that it wouldn’t matter. And it didn’t, really. He’d always loved a challenge. He smiled.

           

“Thank you,” the Victorian Sherlock breathed. “I will live easier, knowing this.”

           

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock returned, “although I believe I’ve come off better for this encounter.”

           

“Perhaps,” the Victorian Sherlock mused.

           

“Do you…do you want to know anything else about the future?” Sherlock ventured. He considered it unlikely, and was therefore unsurprised when Victorian Sherlock laughed.

           

“It’s hardly valuable for my work to know of gadgets and advancements I will never see,” he said finally. “What you have told me is enough, thank you.”

           

“That’s what I thought,” Sherlock answered.

           

The mist began to darken and swirl closer. It was still abnormally dry, but Victorian Sherlock’s face was becoming dimmer.

           

“It appears this encounter is at an end,” he said. “Good luck to you, and give my best to your John, alright?”

           

Sherlock would have promised to do so. He would have even said thank you, too, but he knew that the other man could see it in his face, and so he just kept looking at him until the mist swallowed him up and he sank into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading. Next chapter a John and a Watson have a chat of their own...


	3. Chapter 3

Watson didn’t remember getting up, but when he opened his eyes again he was standing in the middle of…what?

It was fairly bright, but all he could see was swirling mist that didn’t seem to touch him, because he wasn’t cold or wet. The ground was solid enough, but when he looked down, he was mildly worried to see that he was standing on the weird mist.

“It’s unnatural,” he muttered.

“You’ve got that right,” came a new voice.

Watson turned on his heel, hand going to his waist for a revolver that wasn’t there. The young man coming towards him raised his hands defensively.  His clothes were rather strange, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. Automatically he looked around for Holmes: he would know.

“It’s okay,” the young man said, trying to calm him. “I’m not looking for trouble, mate. Do you know where we are?”

Watson frowned, but stood at ease. “I do not know,” he admitted. “The last I remember I was going to bed.”

“Me too,” said the young man. He frowned. “Did Mycroft Holmes have something to do with this? I told, him, enough with the bloody kidnappings—”

“Mycroft? Kidnapping?” Watson was flummoxed. “Perhaps we had better start at the beginning.” He held out his hand. “My name is Dr. John Watson.”

The young man started violently. “You’re joking, right?”

“No, that is my name,” Watson replied. Was this young man one of his readers? He was hardly that famous.

“Well, it’s my name too, Dr. and all,” the young man—John Watson—said, and he reached out and took his hand. He was solid enough. “Though I prefer John.”

“How convenient,” Watson said with a smile, “I usually go by Watson.”

John leaned back on his heels. “So this is a dream, then,” he said.

“Do you think so?” Watson asked. “I suppose it makes sense that way, although I’m curious about you.”

“Same,” John said. “I mean, you’re dressed in…well, I’d put that in the 19th century.”

“Well, certainly,” Watson said. “We’re near to the close of it. What else would I be wearing?”

John looked startled. “You’re- you mean you’re actually from Victorian times?”

“Of course I am, where are you from?”

John shook his head, bewildered. “The 21st century. 2011, if you want to get specific.”

Watson took a step back. “That’s impossible,” he spluttered.

“Just improbable,” John replied, “and you know what Sherlock always says…”  
Watson rolled his eyes. “Of course. So—wait, you know Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yeah, he’s my flatmate…he’s my friend. Has been for about a year.” John looked a little uncomfortable. “Are you two still friends? You look a bit older than me.”

Watson chuckled. “I am indeed, we’ve been friends nearly twenty years now.” He thought back wistfully to the times when he and Holmes were younger, less pain and memory clouding their eyes. And yet…

“I wonder,” he said carefully, “if you yourself are me, or just similarly named.”

John shrugged. “I’m wondering that too, but—this seems too right to be just a coincidence. After all, it is a dream.” He paused for a moment. “Mike Stamford introduced us, we live at 221b Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, we solve crimes and I blog about it—sorry, I write about them.”

Watson nodded, a little puzzled by the strange word. “That’s correct for us, too,” he replied.  “Although Holmes claims to not appreciate my writings.”

John laughed. “Sherlock does too, and I thought he was serious for a while, but I noticed—well, someone pointed it out—that he’s commented on everything since we started living together. Not favourably, but…”

“It’s just how he is, I suppose,” Watson sighed. “Although really, I wouldn’t change him, would you?”

“God no.” John blushed a bit. “He’s…just fine the way he is.”

Watson bowed his head for a moment, thinking. “If you are me—and it seems as though you are—then I can trust you with a secret. Is that true?”

“Yes,” John said immediately. “Absolutely.”

Watson fidgeted, but he needed to say it out loud, just once, to show his pride in the man that he loved. “I have romantic feelings for Holmes,” he confessed. “And he returns them. Of course we cannot tell anyone else, the consequences would be horrible, but it is wonderful to know that he loves me as well.”

He looked up at John, and was shocked to see that he had gone chalk white. Concerned—was the other man going to faint? Could one faint in a dream?—he stepped forward. John backed away. Watson winced. Had he disgusted the man?

“He…he feels the same way as you do?” John whispered.

Ah, so that was the problem. “I didn’t know it until tonight,” Watson answered gently, “but yes, he…loves me. As I love him.”

John shook his head. A little more colour came into his cheeks. “I thought—I mean, the only reason I haven’t said anything is because the git said he wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.”

Watson frowned. “You would broach the topic so casually?” Then a stunning idea came to mind. “In the future, is a love like this still illegal?”

“Not in Britain,” John answered. “People can still be awful about it, but most countries let it happen; lots even let people get married. My sister Harry got married in Canada a few years ago. Course, that hasn’t really worked out…”

“So you could be with him, openly?” Watson clarified, heart pounding.

“Yeah, I suppose. The Yard would never let us hear the end of it, but…”  
“Why does that matter?” Watson burst out. “You love him, why does anyone else matter?!”

John looked surprised. “I suppose…well, it doesn’t.” He looked at Watson. “Am I an idiot?”

“To agree to that would mean calling myself an idiot,” Watson pointed out. “And frankly, I do not think that you are one. Even in your world where being homosexual is not a crime, I would think you are more used to being with women?”

“Mostly, yeah,” John said. “I’ve known that I’m bi for a while now, but I’ve only been with a couple of blokes and that was a long time ago.”

“What do you mean, bi?” Watson asked.

“Right, sorry—bisexual. It means that you like men and women. You probably are too.”

“Fascinating,” Watson murmured. “And that makes…well, it makes sense.”

“How do you mean?”

“I was in love with one woman enough to marry her. She died a few years ago, but I was happy with her.”

“I don’t think I’ve met anyone like that yet,” John answered. He looked worried, suddenly, and Watson didn’t need to be a Great Detective to understand why.

“I did love her, but I would never have been with her if I could have been with Holmes. With Sherlock. She was not the love of my life, and I am sure in your time she will find another man who will love her entirely.”     

John’s face cleared. “I hope you’re right.”

“So do I,” Watson said sincerely, for he had loved Mary. “ Now, you must tell your Sherlock how you feel.”

“Are you mental?! I can’t do that—”

“Yes, you can,” Watson said. He was trying to be patient but John was being ridiculous. “You love him, you have admitted as much. I have just told you that Holmes reciprocates my feelings, so there is no fear of rejection—”

“But what if that’s different?!” John burst out. “What if that’s the one thing that keeps our universes separate?”

“It won’t be,” Watson promised. “If it were, what would be the point of this encounter? I can give you courage to reveal your feelings and you…you can give me the comfort of knowing that in some world, we are happy together in the way we truly feel.”      

John stood still for a moment.

“Please, tell him,” Watson said hoarsely. “You won’t regret it.”     

John straightened his shoulders. “Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell him when I wake up. But if you’re wrong, I’ll come after you through this dream-world-thing and clock you.”

“How would you turn me into a clock?” Watson asked, confused.

John chuckled. “Never mind.”

Watson noticed that the mist was creeping closer to them. “I think our time may be up,” he said.

“Probably,” John agreed. “Listen—no matter what happens, thanks.”

“Thank you,” Watson responded. “You’ve given me hope.”

And with that, the mist closed over them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we'll see what happens when people wake up from strange dreams like these...


	4. Chapter 4

When John came downstairs Sherlock was already putting the plates of toast in place on their tiny table, and pouring tea for himself. His gait was off, which should have warned him. He turned around to face him.

John’s face was set and pale, his eyes determined. He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on the night before, which was odd.

“Good morning,” Sherlock tried. 

John hesitated a moment, turned his head to the side as if checking for spies, and then strode forward and kissed Sherlock full on the mouth. 

Sherlock was suddenly very glad he’d put the teapot down already, because otherwise he’d have dropped it. John was still kissing him, and Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what to do. 

When his flatmate finally pulled away, all he could think to say was “Oh. So it wasn’t a dream then.”

John’s face was flushed; his eyes widened. “You didn’t—did you dream something too?”

“Yes,” Sherlock managed. Talking seemed abnormally difficult. “I spoke to someone who...resembled me. We spoke for a while.” 

“Same thing happened to me,” John said. His face flushed a bit darker, and Sherlock saw his left hand tremble. “Did he…did he tell you anything…in particular?”

And Sherlock saw John’s confidence starting to falter, saw him begin to question it, start to close down. He remembered what Holmes had said. He hides his pain.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he snapped, and kissed John firmly, wrapping his arms around him to assure him that he meant it. 

John broke away first. “Sherlock—need to breathe—”

“Breathing’s boring,” Sherlock reminded him, resting his forehead against the doctor’s.

John smiled, but still looked uncertain. “So you…you love me?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock murmured. 

John swallowed hard. “I love you too, you great idiot.”

“Splendid,” Sherlock answered. 

John tried to say something witty, but Sherlock decided he’d let him breathe long enough and returned to kissing him.

They’d have to talk eventually, work out what else they’d learned in the dreams, what and who they were going to tell, and how things would change. 

For now, though, Sherlock knew that John loved him, that they were going to be together, and the pain in his chest had probably disappeared forever. 

That was enough to be getting on with. 

********************************************************************

When Holmes came out of his room, Watson was already awake and eating breakfast. 

“Mrs. Hudson came back early.” It wasn’t a question. Holmes was disappointed that they wouldn’t have much privacy.

“Yes, but she’s out again,” Watson replied. “Something about needing more food.”

“There was plenty left last night.”

“Was there?” Watson asked innocently. “Though now that I think of it, some young Irregulars seemed to have come in early, and I might have given them some of the food.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Only some?” 

Watson blushed.

Holmes grinned and pulled his chair over to sit beside his Boswell. “It was well thought out, although I do hope you left enough for her breakfast.”

“I did,” Watson said. “I felt disinclined to call down her full wrath.”

“My wise Watson,” Holmes replied, laying a hand on his shoulder. Watson smiled, although the expression turned sad. 

“Did you dream last night?” Holmes asked. 

Watson’s face lit up. “I did, of someone from the distant future. He had my name, my story…he had you, too.”

“I had a similar dream,” Holmes answered. A gentle glow of delight was seeping into his heart. “I believe I convinced him to act upon his feelings.”

“I did the same,” Watson said. He looked hopeful. “And they can be together.”

“They will be,” Holmes replied. “The man I met was far too much in love to do anything else. They are young, at the beginning of their partnership…they will be happy.”

Watson sighed. “In some ways I wish that we could have that as well, but we may have as much someday. Besides, they are happy together, and we have helped with that—is that not enough?”

Holmes smiled. “My dear John,” he said. “It is enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a short epilogue, likely posted tomorrow, where we get an outsider's perspective on this whole situation. I'll also be discussing what I'm planning for this little universe. Cheers, Acme


	5. Epilogue

“I’ve got no idea what happened, I’ve told you before!” Greg Lestrade said, exasperated.

“You must know something,” Sally persisted. She, Greg and Dimmock were crowded together at a pub. “The Freak likes you, he must have said something.”

“He hasn’t, not that I’d tell you if it was private,” Greg retorted. “I know as much as you do.” He was happy for Sherlock and John, he really was, but the constant interrogation was driving him mad.

“They’ve been together two weeks, right? Did something happen around then?” Dimmock inquired.

Greg put his face in his hands. “They were working on a private case, so I don’t know. Honestly, I’m as surprised as you two and the rest of London.”

“That they were mad about each other? Everyone knew that,” Sally blustered.

“Well yeah, but that they actually came out and said it to each other?” Greg ignored Dimmock’s snicker at the pun and went on, “I never thought that would happen. They seemed so in denial.”

“I wonder what set them off?” Dimmock said thoughtfully.

Greg sighed. “The way I think, someone must have clued them in; a brave someone. And then once they realized that they were being idiots, they made up for lost time and just thought, ‘might as well shag!’” 

* * *

 

Lestrade wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. That didn’t mean he was stupid.

Detectives were trained to notice signs of crimes. That didn’t just mean murder and robbery, though those were the cases that they brought Mr. Holmes and later Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes in on. There were other cases: fraud, forgery, violence against children…and sodomy. Lestrade hadn’t seen many cases of that, but there had been a few in recent years. He knew what to look for, and in one particular case, what not to notice.

Lestrade believed in the law and knew that his duty was to uphold it. However, aside from personal religious misgivings, he did not understand what business was it of the law to interfere in matters of the heart. That was why when some of the detectives, after a long night at the public house, joked that the detective and his doctor were practically married, he would scold them. “Shame on you!” he’d snap. “The doctor and Mr. Holmes being so sinful, you hold your tongue.”

The fact of the matter was that there was nothing sinful about Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes’ affection for each other, Lestrade didn’t care what the law or the Church said, and he would make sure they were free to love in a discreet manner. He owed them both that much; the _world_ owed them that much happiness.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, that does it for this installment. Like I said on my other Sherlock story, I don't always ship them. Apparently when I do it involves dimension crossing. What can you do?  
> I have a series of oneshots planned for this little verse, and I've written several already. It'll be a little while before I start posting them however--I want to circle back and post the sequels to my other stories first.  
> Thanks as always for reading and leaving kudos and comments, they've really made my day!  
> Cheers, Acme


End file.
